Silence
by Gabriel87
Summary: Christine loses her voice. Erik panics. Leroux verse. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Christine felt a rush of joy, and a giddy laugh escaped from her lips.

There was Erik, standing in a ring of lantern light by the entrance to the house on the lake. His heels anxiously dug at the ground and he was staring fixedly into space.

He was waiting for her, as promised.

Christine's relief was so complete, it overcame her lingering apprehension of the man, and she ran to him - at least, as much as one can in a corset and stays.

On her last visit, Erik had presented her with the key to the Rue Scribe entrance. It was to be her own, secret way of reaching Erik whenever she desired. Today was the first time she had used it.

In her _head_, she knew she would be safe - Erik had surely prepared the way for her perfectly! But then, as the shadows pressed around her and the passage ways spun off of themselves in a horrible, dizzying confusion, she felt _equally_ certain that she would be lost, go mad, and starve to death. One day poor Erik would find naught but her horrible, decaying body...

_Then_, perhaps, they would be perfectly matched...

But the vision of Erik in the lantern light instantly drove her morbid imaginings away.

"Erik!" she called out.

He spun towards the sound of her voice, and he had to check the impulse to run towards her and sweep her into his arms.

_"Christine!"_

"I am here, Erik," she said as she trotted towards him. "I made it! All on my own, too!"

She could see his eyes crease in a smile behind his mask.

"Of course," he said. "I had no doubts."

It was a lie - she could hear the relief in his own voice! - but Christine still felt pleased.

Her breath was heaving, but she made the effort to grace him with her prettiest smile. It did not have the intended effect - Erik quickly averted his gaze and became her rigidly formal host once more.

"Enough of that! Come, we have much to do..."

But then he held out the crook of his arm in the gentlemanly but endearinlgy obvious hope that she would take it. Such was her pleasure in having made it by herself - surely _that_ was the reason - she linked arms with him and let him lead her through the door.

...

Rehersal that morning had been an utter disaster. In addition to the usual temper tantrums and threats, the installation for the new chandelier had begun. The managers, not wishing for their staff to run idle, had cleverly tried to fit the two events into the same period of time. Thus, the cast was singing rather more _intensely_ than usual, trying to be heard over the blows of hammers and the shouts of the workmen. The only person who really managed this feat was La Carlotta - much to the workmen's annoyance.

Things were proceeding in this happy way until a loud argument between the overseer and the managers had derailed the entire morning.

The essential _problem_, said the overseer (during La Carlotta's solo), was that the managers had decided on an entirely too _elaborate_ design for the replacement. With the weight of the additional curlecues and fol-de-rols - these were technical terms you understand - the base needed a complete overhaul to provide the appropriate support. The managers pointed out that this would be expensive. The overseer agreed, but you could not contradict Madame Gravity.

At this point, Carlotta had shrieked that she refused to be in the same _building_ as the workmen, who drowned out the music of heaven with their hammers from hell. The overseer had then mentioned where Carlotta could stick his hammer _instead_, and complete chaos broke out.

The upshot was that the auditorium was a disaster of wood, iron rods, and plaster dust, would remain so for over a week, and that all rehersals were cancelled.

As soon as they were dismissed, Christine had run to her little dressing room, pleased to escape the noise and to wash away the plaster dust.

But the moment she entered, her heart had leapt into her throat. There was a rose on her vanity.

_He had been there._

There was a letter next to the flower, printed all in red ink, suggesting that she spend the unexpected new time with her Maestro. "It would _not do_, you know, to have your voice suffer from the neglect of an entire week. I would be honored to meet you at the entrace to my home at three this afternoon..."

Christine could barely contain the chills that travelled up and down her spine. Erik was so _frightening_, it would not do to refuse him...

And, after all, there _was_ her voice to consider...

...

The chills started up again the moment she passed the threshold of his house. She had forgotten just how powerful Erik could be in his own domain...

She slowly removed her little shawl, ashamed to see her hands grow pale and tremble as she folded the material.

She turned to face the room...

...and was disconcerted to find Erik simply staring at her in awe.

Her mouth went rather dry.

"Well," she said weakly, "here we are..."

"Yes," he said, his voice rich and melodious with pleasure.

Christine was ashamed to hear herself begin to babble.

"I couldn't believe the mess they created in the auditorium, you know...such a _lot_ of dust everywhere! I'm afraid I don't know whether all of this chaos is worth it, that new chandelier is so very, well, _I don't know_, there's just so much of it, all over the place, at once!"

She became aware of Erik's eyes narrowing. Was he displeased? She swallowed, hard, but still the nonsense came pouring from her lips.

"Of course, Carlotta is very pleased with the design, she thinks that it is very grand and that it reminds her of a certain palace in Spain, she said which, but I don't remember now what it was, it is sometimes so very difficult to follow everything she says-"

"Christine..." said Erik warningly.

She swallowed roughly again and suddenly coughed.

_"Christine!"_

His voice was like a whip through the air.

She froze, though her heart beat violently inside her rib cage. She was to be punished again...

As she often found herself doing with Erik, she hung her head and gazed at him with wide, penitent eyes.

"Yes, Erik?" she said meekly. "What is it that-_hmmph_!"

He had launched across the room and pressed his hands over her mouth.

"DO NOT TALK."

For a moment, Christine was simply paralyzed from shock. Her back was pressed against the stone wall, and Erik towered before her...She suddenly realized it was the first time he had touched her bare skin since_ the mask_...she kept forgetting how cruelly cold his fingers were...

_"Mmmph!"_

"DO NOT _TALK!"_

Anger was quickly replacing shock. Christine could feel her defenses mounting, and her brain cast around for the most scathing thing she could say to him, until she felt...could it be...

His hands were shaking!

She looked questioningly into his eyes, and was surprised to see an expression of complete and utter horror.

For some unnacountable reason, poor Erik was in mortal fear of her voice.

Christine slowly raised her hands and placed them gently over Erik's. His fingers were cold and trembling, and she felt her heart leap in sudden pity.

She then tried, as sweetly and demurely as possible, to pry his hands from her face.

Succeeding after a moment or two, she simply held his hands in hers, rubbing little circles into his palms with her thumbs.

"Erik," she whispered, "what is-"

"Christine!" He said brokenly. "Oh, _Christine_...your _voice_..."

Her eyes grew wide with confusion.

"Oh, Christine, can't you _hear_ it?"

She shook her head.

His hands tightened around hers painfully.

"Christine," he whispered desperately, "I have been neglegent! I should have practiced greater caution...the plaster dust...and now, the way you're _jabbering_ on, after that _devastating_ rehersal...and _coughing_?"

She waited.

_"Your voice is suffering!"_

Christine didn't quite know what to say.

It was true that singers must stop any vocal exercise after a time, for fear of damaging the worn muscles of their vocal cords. Those that did not exercise proper caution could grow the dreaded nodules that robbed them, temporarily, of their voice. It was even whispered that some unfortunates had, by neglecting their care, simply _ripped_ through their cords, becoming permanant vocal cripples.

The very thought used to make Christine cringe in fear, yet recently she had felt more confident on this score.

One of Erik's greatest gifts as an instructor was the way he seemed to make her voice tireless. Christine found that, through some combination of genius and magic, Erik simply bathed her throat in a constant state of perfect health, even after _hours_ of singing.

Even _now_, she felt no pain or roughness.

She tried to say as much.

"Erik, I really think-"

"_Enough_! Christine, this has gone on far enough. I cannot allow you to abuse yourself in this manner! You are not to talk until..." he paused to think, "_at least_ twenty four hours have passed!"

_"Erik! I-"_

_"STOP TALKING!"_

She stared for a moment, then tried another tack. She mouthed her protest soundlessly, trusting on Erik's ability to read her lips, but then Erik swiftly brought his hands up to her throat and gently, but firmly, pressed his fingers onto the hinge of her jaw.

"You are not to use your mouth to even _signal_ words. _Your entire larynx_ needs rest, Christine, there must be no additional movement to stress it! If you wish to communicate..."

He spun away, disappearing from the room before Christine had even registered the movement, and in another second returned with a stack of thick white parchment and a pencil.

"You may write. You may say anything - take your time, I will be patient - only _please_ _don't use your voice!"_

So began the longest twenty four hours of Christine's entire life.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Erik had decreed the twenty four hours of vocal rest, he set to work on curing her.

He ushered her over to the divan, where he proceeded to wrap her in several fine cashmere shawls, as if she was ill with a cold. When he offered to fetch more pillows, she quickly shook her head. In fact, Christine had to bite her lip to hide her irritation - it was too ridiculous! Yet Erik was so clearly horrified by her state that she couldn't bring herself to deliberately disobey him.

Once ensured of her comfort, and that the papers and pencil were within easy reach, he moved onto the next phase of treatment.

"Now, Christine," he said, as authoritatively as if he was presenting a new pattern of scales, "it is of _vital_ importance that you drink water. We must ensure that your vocal mechanism is properly lubricated, especially as it is showing signs of irritation. Would you prefer a simple glass, or perhaps hot? With a slice of lemon?"

Christine laid the paper on her knee and wrote,

_May I have tea instead?_

Erik glanced at the writing and snorted.

"Absolutely not. The objective in this instance is _hydration_, not _refreshment_. If your body is not adequately hydrated, your vocal cords will not have the proper distribution of protective mucus - it will clump, rather than form the even spread that we desire. For this, simple water is much more efficient. Now then - plain, or hot with lemon?"

As it happened, Christine had no interest in drinking anything after that graphic description of her vocal cords. But Erik was staring at her so expectantly.

_Hot with Lemon_

She blinked, and he was already gone from the room to heat the kettle.

She sighed. Truth be told, her throat _was_ a bit sore. She hadn't realized it in the excitement - no, not excitement! _Fear_...yes, _fear_ - of visiting Erik for a week. But now that she was finally here...

She discreetly cleared her throat, glancing fearfully over her shoulder in case Erik should hear her. She was _still_ battling plaster dust, and there was the slightest sensation of pain in the back of her mouth...

Christine recalled a high note she had sung, trying to force it over a round of particularly vigorous hammering.

She felt her stomach clench in sudden fear.

Erik returned in record time. When he held out a pretty, rose patterned tea cup filled with steaming lemon water, she snatched at it eagerly.

"Easy, Christine! Do not gulp so, you are not a fish! You will stress your muscles more..."

Christine blushed as she set the cup back on its saucer, and she furtively brushed away a spot of water from her lip with the tip of her finger.

Erik beamed at her.

"It is very lucky," he said, "that I thought to invite you here. You will forgive me, my dear, but you know I take such a _personal_ interest in your voice, I wish to see that it is properly taken care of..."

He refilled her cup from the silver teapot.

"In any other singer, such minute strain would not be noticeable - for the most part they sound naturally like a miserable flock of crows! But your instrument is so _finely_ tuned, so _precise_...it is rather like your teacup, the merest hairline fracture would show. You know, my dear, it...it almost makes me afraid. I sometimes wish I could place your voice in a glass case, to keep it safe forever...but there, that's pure nonsense...you must forgive me, little one, I am rambling! I suppose it is a wish to fill the silence..."

_I understand what you mean. _

"Do you, I wonder? I cannot really imagine you saying anything that would not utterly charm your audience."

Christine's blush deepened.

_That is kind. But you know how women frequently talk nonsense. I am by no means immune._

"I do not wish to contradict you, my dear, but I am entirely sincere in my praise of you! I cannot speak for other women, of course, but _you_...I wonder if you truly understand the effect your voice has on others? There is a certain lightness, a...a _sweetness_, that permeates it completely. Every tone, every nuance of speech...the words become almost immaterial..."

Christine arched an eyebrow. Erik was suddenly flustered.

"Well! That is...of course your words aren't immaterial! I didn't mean to suggest - that was an unfortunate thing to say, it's not that I - oh, Christine, please _forgive_ me! I'm rambling again, I don't know what I'm saying..."

But Christine was already grinning. This was priceless.

_Perhaps __you__ should be writing down your words instead of me. You need more time to think than I._

He snorted.

"You have an unexpected cruel streak, Christine. I must learn to guard myself against it in the future."

His voice was tinged with amusement, but his eyes were sharp.

_How is your work? Do you have any new compositions?_

"Really, Christine! This is a remarkably transparent attempt to distract me from your faux-pas with flattery. But as I am a gentleman, I will permit myself to be led. Yes, my work is coming along. I have just completed a series of string quartets, as well as a concerto for the viola."

_I had no idea you were so interested in the viola._

"Not interested, per se. More...sympathetic. The viola is a much maligned instrument, but really, when in capable hands, it's tone is particularly warm and resonant."

_But that's the catch, finding capable hands for the viola._

"Christine, you should be ashamed. You've been listening far too much to the first violins."

Their odd conversation continued through another three cups of hot water. The air was fragrant with lemon, and Christine found herself relaxing deeper into the divan. Unfortunately, her hand was beginning to cramp.

She set the paper and pencil aside. It might have been her imagination, but Erik seemed, perhaps, a little disappointed.

But he shook himself and became instantly solicitous.

"Your hand is hurting...of course it is! Forgive me, my dear, I did not mean to put you through all of that work! I should have been more aware...would you like a compress?"

Christine smiled and brushed away Erik's concern.

"You are sure?" he said, a mere shade of suspicion in his voice. He studied her intently, and Christine dropped her gaze, feeling a small flutter in her chest.

"Christine," said Erik suddenly, "do you know the story of Scheherazade?"

She looked up and shook her head in the negative.

"Would you...that is...would you like me to tell it?"

Christine nodded eagerly. Erik might fill her with fear and horror, but his stories were always worth listening to.

He leaned back in his chair and spread his arms out expressively in front of him.

"It is a wonderful tale! I heard the most beautiful telling of it in Persia, in the court of the Shah. It is appropriate, really, for it is in a very similar palace where our tale begins. Once upon a time there was a young sultan, who was not only handsome, but was honest and kind. His rule was just, and the people loved him with all of their hearts! Yet their love was nothing compared to the love he held for his wife, the little sultana..."

Christine listened in awe. She thrilled at the description of the palace, and the extraordinary beauty of the sultan's little wife. She cringed in horror when she learned of her outrageous deceit of her husband, and her brutal execution. Her heart filled with pity for the hundreds of women who followed her, the sultan's bride for a night and beheaded in the morning. She burned with curiosity when Scheherazade revealed that she had a plan to stop the sultan's madness...

Erik's voice was truly magnificent. His tones lilted playfully, caressing Christine's ears in a hypnotizing trance until she was utterly spellbound, until she forgot there was such a thing as Erik, as the house on the lake, as _herself_ - only the adventures of the tales of Scheherazade.

She didn't notice when Erik stood from his chair. She still didn't notice when he sat next to her on the divan. She _especially_ didn't notice when he leaned close and put a protective arm behind her. She was wholly, completely enchanted...

It had been a long and exhausting day, and no right thinking person could deny it had been utterly terrifying! Innocent, helpless Christine was once more the captive of _the Phantom of the Opera_! It is only to be _expected_ that she fainted at the nearness of the horrible masked man...it is the _only logical reason_ for the fact that her head rested gently against his chest...

...that, as sleep overcame her, she unthinkingly nuzzled closer...

It is the only_ possible _explanation.


	3. Chapter 3

Christine had a vague awareness of being spirited away to her room before sleep overcame her completely. She was warm, and happy, and she dreamed of palaces and genies.

Yet as the night progressed, her dreams became more disturbing.

Shadows grew on the walls of the sultan's palace, until what was once bright and cheerful was now shrouded in fear and darkness. They twisted and turned into an a web of deserted corridors...was it the opera house? Where was Erik?

There was a surge of nameless evil behind her - she was being pursued - she must not be caught! She ran, but the passage ways twisted on and on...there was no one to help her. No! Erik would come - he had promised! All she had to do was say his name...she called out, she screamed, but she was mute! The air simply died in her throat, and Erik never came for her...of course he wouldn't, Erik would not care about a mute...

The nightmare shifted. Where the corridors were once deserted, they were now thick with corpses. They pressed around her, with skeleton faces and glowing eyes, hanging by their necks from the rafters...the cords were pulled so tight...from out of nowhere a hangman's rope lassoed around her neck...she was being strung up, she was being strangled! She clutched wildly at her throat. She had never known such pain...

She screamed, and the noise thrust her violently back into reality.

Her breath heaved, and she stared up into the darkness at the ceiling. She had never felt so grateful for the simple sensation of blankets and pillows under her...

She was not a mute. There were no corpses, no corridors...no strangling ropes...

Then what was...

Her blood turned to ice, and she wrapped her hands around her neck, her eyes tearing in a sudden panic...

Her throat was on fire.

...

"You must open wider, Christine, I cannot see anything past your tongue..."

She obliged, trying valiantly not to cry.

The first thing Christine had done when she left her bed that morning was to find Erik. It did not take long. He was in the music room, humming merrily, and placing some papers on her stand. It was, no doubt, a composition he had created especially for her...

She grasped at his sleeve for his attention. She hadn't even needed to write her request - her eyes were so panicked and pleading, they instantly communicated her need.

Erik pulled her swiftly into the kitchen and sat her on the table, whereupon he brought out a small medical kit and proceeded to examine her.

For a long moment, Erik simply stared into her mouth. He said nothing, and he did not move.

Finally, he gathered himself to speak.

His voice was a whisper.

"Your throat is...quite severely inflamed, Christine. It can only be a reaction to the dust. We - we can only continue our original plan...no talking, plenty of water...it will pass! I am sure it will pass..."

She stared at him, eyes wide, but Erik had turned from her to pack away his little mirror.

"You must not fret, my dear...such an acute reaction is sure to die down quickly! In the meantime, as long as you do not force your voice, there should be no lasting damage..."

Christine bit her lip and hesitantly placed her hand on Erik's arm. She could feel his muscles tighten under her fingertips, but he slowly turned to face her.

She handed him her paper.

_How long will it last?_

He shrugged.

"A day, perhaps two..."

Christine paled. That long!

"There is no need to startle so, dear one! We are simply being cautious, that is all..."

For some reason, Christine did not quite believe him.

...

The morning was chiefly spent drinking water under Erik's determined gaze. Occasionally, Christine would blushingly excuse herself, needing to eliminate all of the extra _hydration_ in her system.

It was incredibly tedious.

The hours _crawled_ by. Erik tried valiantly to entertain his precious songbird - he told stories, he performed card tricks - anything to distract her from the pain in her throat! But Christine could only smile weakly and stare miserably into her glass of water.

At one point, Erik offered to teach her chess.

"It is the most silent activity I can think of, Christine, yet it is so very absorbing! On occasion I have spent several hours at a time on the chess board, though I do not have enough chances now to play as I would wish..."

Christine perked up and nodded eagerly. Her father used to play chess, and it had always struck her as incredibly intelligent and sophisticated. What could be more delightful than to learn such a skill from her Maestro?

However...

"No, Christine...no. The knight can move two squares horizontally and one square vertically, or two squares vertically and one square horizontally. Not...eh...whatever it is that you are doing..."

_I thought that was how the bishop moved._

"No, little one, the bishop moves diagonally."

_Then what does the rook do?_

"It moves in a straight line, either forward, backward or sideways. Er, usually."

Christine nodded, and for a moment she stared fervently at the chess board, biting her lip.

_Which one is the rook again?_

Suffice to say that, in no time at all, her hand was cramped, her pride _severely_ crushed, and she turned away from the board in mortification.

Erik sighed and swept the pieces back into their wooden case.

"Another time, perhaps, my dear. It was unfair of me to expect you to learn under such conditions...perhaps when your voice returns...

Christine could only look at the floor, feeling ashamed of her ignorance.

Without her voice, she must seem very boring to him, indeed.

...

Christine stared jealously at the cup of tea in Erik's hand. She vowed that if she ever got through this, she would consume an entire pot in one sitting.

"You are not drinking your water, Christine," said Erik distractedly.

She shot him a look of pure venom, but Erik was staring fixedly into space and did not see it. Christine scowled at her cup, peeved that her little show of spirit was wasted.

Erik had given up trying to entertain her. After her miserable failure at chess, he seemed to have withdrawn into himself completely. His gaze was unfocused, and he only spoke to remind her of her water. Christine could feel an unexpected bitterness coursing though her. The man had said he _loved_ her! She had never made any claims to cleverness, but now she suddenly wasn't worth talking to?

She fidgeted in her seat, anxious for some sort of attention.

It was _very hard_ to be trapped underground with a monster who couldn't even trouble himself to speak to you!

...

Erik was suffocating in a cloud of pain. He was acutely aware of Christine sitting across from him on the divan, of her stormy looks and of her pale, drawn face - even her squirming body, which would normally have overpowered him with thrills of excitement...

But not now.

Not when she so clearly and rightfully _hated_ him!

He knew it was folly to keep her here. Christine had made it abundantly clear over the course of the day that his little attentions were wearisome to her. She had turned from the chess game in disgust. She had not even been pleased with his stories and tricks. Poor, hideous Erik! He could enchant kings, and evil little sultanas, but not his one, precious angel...no. She could only bear his presence when she was hypnotized by his voice, or lost on a cloud of music.

Erik's heart throbbed wildly as he thought of the last time they sang together...so intimate, so _ecstatic!_ Oh, could there _be_ anything more glorious in the entirety of existence?

And now, in one fell swoop of plaster dust, that was all to be taken from him!

A very small, rational part of Erik's brain hesitantly spoke up. It wished to remind him that he _was_ rather jumping to conclusions...there was _every chance_ that Christine would recover, and they could continue their, ah, _voice lessons,_ as before...

The rest of his brain turned fiercely on the little voice. Shut up! What do _you_ know about it? It had _no idea_ what it was talking about, _no appreciation_ for the poetic depth of Erik's misery! And anyway, it was completely missing the point...

...the _point_, as Erik was now _painfully_ aware, was that without the excuse of voice lessons Christine would want nothing more to do with him!

...

This was certainly not how Christine had imagined spending the week.

She had imagined music. Singing - _glorious_ singing - the kind of singing that sent her soul flying to the heavens. Erik would be spellbound, and she would thrill at the look of adoration shining in his eyes...

No! How could she be thinking such things! She didn't _want_ looks of adoration - she didn't even want to _be_ here!

Did she?

...

It was all so abundantly clear to him now. Voice lessons were the only way that he would ever be able to interact with his little angel. It was the only thing that kept her from running away in terror!

In the role of _tutor_, he was permitted to be close to her...to stare openly, to feast his eyes upon her lovely face, on the delicious rise and fall of her chest...it was practically _expected_...he could even _touch_ her! Through the correction of microscopic, and even (he admitted it!) _imaginary_ faults in her posture, he could gently press his hands onto her back, her stomach, her enticing little waist...he could trace his cold fingers along the line of her neck, or perhaps her shoulders, or the curve of her jaw...

With Christine's voice gone, such delightfully stolen caresses would be lost to him forever. She would see him for what he was...a lecherous old creep who craved her physical presence more than anything in the world. She would be appalled. She would leave him...

He violently choked down a sob that threatened to surface.

It could not be allowed!

If he had to sell his soul to the _devil_, Erik would save her voice!

...

Christine was fretful.

Surely she was only _imagining_ the flutters of sensation she felt whenever Erik was near...or rather, not imagining, but misinterpreting. It was _fear_...simple, uncomplicated _fear_. How could anyone feel _otherwise_ about Erik...just look at him! Just _look_ his strange, full mask...at his tall, imposing figure, or his impossibly long, dexterous fingers...his golden eyes...his graceful, sinuous movements...

Dear God.

...

Erik had abandoned the tea and moved on to scotch.

A newer, _crueler_ thought had just insinuated itself into his brain...

Christine's voice was suffering because of the plaster dust. The plaster dust was in the air because of the workmen. The workmen were there to put up the new chandelier...

_...and the only reason they needed a new one was because he had deliberately brought down the old one._

Could there be any knowledge more hideous? To know that, with one thoughtless little act of violence, he had plunged a dagger, with swift and unholy accuracy, _straight_ into his own heart?

He had murdered Christine's voice with his own hands...

How she must hate him!

...

Christine was trying desperately to pull herself together.

She was here to work. Hadn't Erik made that clear? He had only ever wanted to focus on her voice..._of course_ he wasn't interested in anything else...why, only last night, he had said that even her _words_ didn't matter...

Christine drew herself up.

Very well. If he was _so interested_ in her voice, she could show that it was all she cared about, too.

She hastily scribbled a note, then rose, with the utmost formality, from the divan.

Erik still wasn't looking at her.

She walked towards him in her most regal manner, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

He jumped two feet into the air.

_"Christine!"_

She bit back the apology that came rushing to her lips, and held out her note to Erik.

He snatched at it roughly.

_What were we going to work on?_

"Work on? What...what do you mean, my dear?"

Christine frowned.

_When you invited me here for the week. You said we had work?_

"Oh. Yes..."

He had _planned_ on correcting her posture more...the state of her chest was truly beginning to worry him...

"Well! I...I had a new composition for you, Christine. An aria. I wished to hear it from your own lips. You must _not_ sing it now, not when your throat is so vulnerable, but...perhaps...you would like to see the music?"

She nodded, as coldly and formally as she was able. Erik cringed.

They walked miserably to the music room, Christine feigning aloofness, and Erik observing it all with growing horror.

"Here...here it is, Christine...I, ah, I actually wrote it last night, after you retired for the evening..."

The title was like a shaft straight into her heart.

_Scheherazade_

Christine's breath became ragged, and her lip trembled. She could not have been confronted with her childish imaginings more cruelly! To think, the magic and happiness of last night, the precious story he had told, the story that she _cherished_ more than she had consciously thought possible...

Simply to be _twisted_ to fit into his own selfish obsession with her stupid _voice_...

Oh God, she had been so foolish!

...

Erik was speechless. He had written the aria in a haze of love, remembering the wonderful feeling of her head laying against him, the warmth of her soft body curled into his...

...and now she was _crying?_

...

Christine felt the hot tears flow freely down her cheeks. She didn't care. She was beyond feeling foolish. She was _angry._

Her eyes narrowed in pure hate. She looked Erik straight in the eye.

She opened her mouth, and in a horrible croak, she rasped out:

_"I can't sing this!"_

...and threw the music into a vicious heap on the ground.

...

If Erik was capable of thinking at that moment, he would have observed that his heart had broken into a million worthless little pieces.

...

He didn't even react! He didn't even _care_ about the tumult of feelings inside he...he just _stood_ there, _looking_ at her.

Christine's gaze dropped to the floor and landed on the pathetic, abandoned music sheets. A draft fluttered the corner of one of the little pages...it looked like it was shivering.

She gasped painfully. Her heart spasmed. She had never felt so ashamed of herself. She really _was_ a child...

She looked tearfully at Erik and then fled from the room.

...

Ever so slowly, Erik crouched down to gather up his poor, rejected music. His beautiful little aria...the most heartfelt expression of his love he had ever allowed Christine to see...

...

Christine hadn't even touched the handle of her bedroom door before she regretted her action. Poor Erik! _Surely_ she was being a child..._surely_ he didn't deserve such thoughtless cruelty...she had to apologize...

She quickly wiped the tears from her face and crept slowly to back to the music room. She had to say something..._anything_... if only to ease the pain in her own heart...

She paused at the door.

His back was to her, his shoulders heaving. Was he weeping?

With sudden, unthinkable ferocity, he grabbed the papers from her stand and crushed them, ripping them into little shreds with such blind savagery that Christine leapt backwards in fear.

_"No more singing!"_ he said hoarsely. _"No more voice lessons!_ It is _ruined_...it is all _ruined_! The only thing I have _ever_ loved..."

Christine pressed her hands to her mouth in horror, stumbling backwards, tears flooding her vision. She had heard it from his own mouth. The only thing he had ever loved.

It was only her voice.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Hello all! I know the last chapter was miserable...I couldn't leave you hanging on such a low note. We're not out of the woods yet, but trust me. I haven't labeled this as fluff for nothing.

Christine sat in the middle of her bed, her blankets wrapped close around her shoulders. It did nothing to ease the miserable quivering in her stomach.

So! The Angel of Music, the great _Phantom of the Opera_...he only loved her for her voice, did he? Of all the _blind, miserable _women in the world, she must have been the most _pathetic..._

She wept, earnestly and impassionedly, but the strain was hard on her throat and she soon gave it up.

She fell forward in a heap onto her stomach. She wondered vaguely if she should jump into Lake Averne. No...Erik wouldn't even _care_, now that her voice was gone...anyway, it would be cold.

Christine flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows flicker from her guttering candle. She felt it only proper to inflict as much misery on herself as was possible, perhaps under the theory that if she crushed her heart to pieces she wouldn't feel it anymore.

She thought back over her long association with her Maestro. She started from the first, miraculous moment when he had presented himself as her tutor, and continued until the present...

_It would not do to neglect your voice for an entire week..._

_You will forgive me, my dear, but you know I take such a __personal__ interest in your voice..._

_I sometimes wish I could place your voice in a glass case, to keep it safe forever..._

From beginning to end, all he had ever cared about, almost all he had ever _talked_ about, was her voice...his _pride_, his _work of art_...what was she to him, other than the pretty vase that held the _true_ object of his devotion...

Christine thought back to her first night underground with him, when he had whisked her away after the chandelier had fallen - it was not that long ago! When he had first confessed his _love_...

Surely _then_, he had cared for her just a _little_...

She had just come from a bath, she remembered. She was feeling clean and refreshed, and had slipped on one of the luxurious gowns she had found provided for her. There was fear in her heart, but there was also _curiosity_. Yes, she was fiercely curious about her tall, imposing captor...the man whose voice sent chills down her spine every time she heard it...she had slipped quietly out of her little room in order to find him.

He was leaning casually against the mantle, looking cool and elegant...looking _powerful_.

He was simply...waiting for her.

He had straightened as she approached, resolutely clearing his throat. He made a brave start, at least until his hands began to shake...he quickly hid them behind his back. He then addressed the entire statement to her shoes.

"Christine...oh, my _dearest_ Christine...I...I simply wish to tell you that...I _love_ you..."

She had stared at him, horrorstruck.

He quickly held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Oh! _Please_ do not fear...I will _never_ tell you so, unless, someday, perhaps, you wish me to...in the meantime," he added, with sudden confidence, "we will devote ourselves entirely to music!"

Christine hissed. Even this recollection was spoiled! How easily his supposed _love_ was forgotten in the excitement _spending time on our music..._

She was glad that her voice was gone. She was _glad_...and she hoped it never came back!

...

Erik considered the bottle in front of him. He did not often drink scotch, but when he did, he liked to have the finest quality that money could buy. As it happened, that was quite a _lot_ of money, and he had just drunk an amount equivalent to what most men make in a year.

He shrugged. When you needed to numb your heart, why not do it in style...

He poured another tumblerful.

Here he was, just as he knew he must be, sooner or later. Christine hated him, with all of the force contained in her little body, with a _viciousness_ he had never imagined his precious angel to possess...

Erik took a large swallow of the smooth amber liquid, pleased with how swiftly it traveled down his throat. He then picked up a strip of paper and held it, experimentally, over the candle flame. It curled and smoked in a most satisfactory manner before lighting completely aflame...so much for _Scheherazade._

Now when, exactly, was the last time he had written a dirge? Not for _ages_, it seemed...not since he had first laid eyes on little Christine...

Could she _ever_ love him now?

Probably not.

He had done his utmost to please her...singing was _always_ something she enjoyed, something she could _relate_ to...his praise for her voice was sincere. He should have stuck to it more firmly...he should have known better than to bring up his own selfish feelings, so prematurely...

He considered, for a moment, jumping into Lake Averne. No, that was ridiculous...he was _far_ too drunk to walk! The dirge...best to work on the dirge instead...

He held another strip of paper over the candle flame and watched it glow.


	5. Chapter 5

Christine went to bed that night resolving, with a certain grim satisfaction, that she would be mute for life. She would join a convent, perhaps, and scrub chapel floors until she died of a wasting illness, or perhaps a fever. The doctor would shake his head, and say to the poor nuns who were weeping around her deathbed, "She died of the most acute case of broken heartedness I have ever seen. Such a young, beautiful, child...the man who toyed with her heart must have been a perfect _idiot_..."

Yes. That's exactly how it would happen_..._

With a final sniffle, she went to sleep.

However, all of her happy dreams of proud, righteous suffering were dashed when she woke in the morning.

Erik's original prediction was correct - her voice had returned to a state of perfect health.

The water and the rest had done an admirable job. The swelling was reduced considerably, and all of the pain was gone.

She tried a few scales...surely, not even Erik could find fault with her voice!

Erik...

_damn_.

Wouldn't he be overjoyed that his little _project_ was back in working order! No doubt the first thing he would do would be to march her into the music room and command her to sing - oh, cold, heartless man!

Then again...

She stepped over to her mirror, analyzing her haggard face and pale throat...

There was no reason that he had to know...

...

Erik was stretched out on the divan, the scene of his thwarted romance...the place where he had snatched just a little bit of happiness when Christine had nestled into him.

Cruel, fickle woman...he had not been so repulsive then!

_Of course you weren't, Erik, _said an evil little voice in his head. _You ensured it! You made sure that she was drunk off of the sound of your voice before you approached her, that her senses were completely ensnared, to toy with as you wished...you are nothing but a hideous, lecherous old bastard._

"Yes," he sighed. "It's true..."

_Don't you see that's why she hated your aria? It reminded her! It brought it all back to her! How, as she sat that there, in all of her sweet, vulnerable innocence, a miserable corpse snuck over and started pawing at her. Of course she hates you!_

"I didn't paw!" he whispered pitifully. "I only held her..."

_Six to one, you old goat. We all know what you were thinking about...you make Don Juan look like a little child._

Erik snorted. "If _only_."

_Well, you certainly aren't doing yourself any favors now. Look at yourself, you're a mess!_

"I'm always a mess. Remember?" He tapped the side of his mask, until he realized it made his head hurt.

_So now you're a worse mess! Your clothes are wrinkled, and you probably smell...how much scotch did you drink last night?_

Erik frowned. The question was unexpectedly hard. He looked at his hands, wondering if he had enough fingers to count...eh...probably not.

_I thought so. God, I hope you're proud of yourself. Go clean up. _

He nodded at this sage advice.

"Yes...Erik must look good for his little guest, mustn't he..."

...

Christine took her time getting ready that morning. She wanted to look _good_.

In fact, she wanted to look _ravishing_.

Maybe, just _maybe_, Erik would understand what he was missing...he would see her as something _other_ than a mere instrument, for him to play at will...

She blushed as she selected a gown with a somewhat lower neckline than she was accustomed to. _Technically_ it was an evening dress, but then time was so very relative underground...

She smiled involuntarily...the dress was truly beautiful. She was still enough of a child that such things could lift her spirits. The fabric was of a deep, midnight blue that made her skin glow, and enhanced the simple, delicate coloring of her blonde hair...

A strategically placed gold necklace completed the ensemble. Christine blushed fiercely as she regarded herself in the mirror. Yes, it would be hard to miss her in this...

But then her jaw became set. No _doubt_ Erik would find a way. Miserable man.

She took a deep, steadying breath and opened her door.

She strode regally out of her room, glancing haughtily around her...

Her shoulders slumped.

_Where was he?_

...

Erik took his time preparing himself. In spite of everything, he was an unspeakably vain man, and achieving the proper line of a garment was of as much artistic importance to him as, well...anything else, really.

He had scrubbed himself clean and given himself a good shave. The little rituals had been soothing, absorbing him entirely in the present...blocking out the past...

The _future_...

But now...now that he was dressed in fresh linens, with a cravat tied so _perfectly_ that even Vicompte de Chagney would wilt in jealousy...

Now that the _scotch_ had worn off...

There was nothing more to distract him from the enormity of his pain.

His breath caught in his throat, and he screwed up his face against the tears, all to no avail. He sunk to his knees and wept.

Maybe...maybe Christine would not notice if he simply hid from her all day...

Alas. He could already here her moving about in the parlor. He steadied himself with a deep, shuddering intake of breath, and straightened his cuffs and trousers. He might be the most _miserable, pathetic, lovelorn_ excuse for a man in the _entire universe_, but he would _not_ be accused of being a bad host.

He opened his bedroom door...

...and _froze_.

...

Christine jumped when she heard the turn of the door handle. This was a bad idea, this was a _horrible_ idea...

But then she turned to face him.

He stood, stiff as a ramrod, in the door to his bedroom. He had never looked so immaculate...so _elegant_...

_Did her emotional turmoil mean nothing to him at all?_

...

Oh God.

_Why_, of _all_ possible days, was she wearing _that_ dress?

She could have no idea how _seductively_ the fabric clung to her hips...his mouth went dry, he felt _entirely_ too hot...

She turned to face him.

She was a _goddess_...from the glow in her eyes, to the adorable pout on her lips...

His eyes traveled down her neck to...

_Oh God._

...

Christine smiled as sweetly as she could, waiting for him to speak.

It took rather longer than she expected. She fidgeted nervously.

It seemed to prod Erik into action.

"How...ah...how...er, I..." There was an audible intake of breath and he started over. "How is your...voice today, C-Christine?"

She fluttered her eyes sadly, and delicately trailed her fingers over her throat...

"Oh..." he said.

And then he slammed the door shut.

...

For a moment she simply stared in shock.

Then the rage over came her.

She quickly grabbed a cushion from the divan and shrieked into it.

...

"You've just got to think _dead_ thoughts, Erik, old boy...cold, _dead_ thoughts...you mustn't think...about...about..._hnng_..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: hang on to your hats, kids. I'm going to be updating fast and furious, and this story will be finished by tonight. Enjoy!**

When Erik emerged again, some little time later, Christine was calmly sitting on the divan. On the surface she appeared smooth and unruffled, but in truth she was _consumed_ with mortification. Erik's cruel indifference to her charms had robbed her of all of her boldness, and she had covered her bare shoulders with a wrap.

She tried to smile at him.

Erik's gaze instantly dropped to the floor, then roamed a bit until it finally rested on a little Persian ornament on the mantelpiece.

"I am sorry that your throat is still bothering you, Christine," he said vaguely, picking up the ornament and inspecting it. "I had depended on your voice returning to normal in the next day or two." He set the figure gently back on the mantle.

Suddenly, he turned to her. His beautiful eyes glinted in his mask, as they looked down on her from his commanding height. Christine felt herself grow weak.

"I hope, my dear," he murmured, "that you are not in any pain?"

Oh! Could...could he truly care?

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with hope.

"Excellent. Let us take it as a good omen and set our souls in patience...now...if you would come with me, Christine..."

He held out his hand.

Her stomach fluttered, and she laid her hand in his...

Yet the moment she was on her feet, Erik unceremoniously dropped her hand from his grasp.

"Breakfast is waiting, my dear," he said, and he walked away from her with quick, powerful strides.

Christine ground her teeth.

If she had not _exploded_ by the end of the day, it would be due to God's own grace!

...

Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_

Erik had thought he was safe, when he saw that Christine was chastely covered with her little wrap, but in the end he hadn't been able to resist. His beautiful little angel had simply looked so soft, so _inviting_...he had reached out to her almost without thinking...

But the moment her warm, velvety fingertips brushed his skin, his body had reacted, numb to everything but the fierce, animal urges that surged up inside him.

It was lucky he had released her hand when he did.

Yes.

Lucky...

...

Breakfast was a miserable affair. Christine ate her toast in silence, while Erik sat moodily across from her, studiously avoiding any glance in her direction.

He eventually cleared his throat and, addressing himself to the highly polished table surface, announced:

"My dear, I am afraid you must excuse me. I have several compositions which need my undivided attention, so it is my intention to spend the rest of the day in the music room-"

Christine dropped her fork with a horrible clatter.

"I...I will heat the kettle for you, Christine. You know where the tea things are...please, keep drinking your water, I am sure you wish for your voice to return as soon as possible. Until later, my dear..."

He was gone.

In a blind fury, Christine overturned her plate and smashed it against the floor.

She regretted it instantly. Besides the simple childishness of it, she had made a rather fearful mess.

She sighed heavily.

Now, _where_ would an Opera Ghost keep his dustpans...

...

Erik spent a productive morning in the music room. After several hours of testing, he found that the middle C note was, in fact, _right_ where he had left it in the center of the piano. Every. Single. Time.

He slammed the lid down in a fury, and the abused little instrument made a loud, unlovely noise in protest.

Erik scowled.

Could he do _nothing_ right today?

...

Christine spent the morning vaguely pulling the fringe out of a cushion on the divan.

The convent was looking more likely by the minute.

...

Erik leapt to his feet, blindly knocking over the piano bench.

He had had enough.

_Yes_, Christine hated him. _Yes_, he was just as much in love with her as ever. _Yes_, he was moping like a miserable, school boy _twat_.

But_ was_ he, or was he _not_, _the Phantom of the Opera?_

As the Angel of Doom, he had once electrified entire _countries_ with the fear of his power. Even _now_, the stage hands, the ballet rats, nay, the _highest society_ of Paris whispered fearfully of his influence, of his _dominance_... of his _ultimate supremacy_ that saturated his temple, from cellar to rooftop, down to the last iota!

For it _was_ his temple.

Did he not command the Opera house to bend, indomitably, to his will?

Did not _everything_ in the Opera house owe to him the very _strictest_ obedience?

Did it not follow, then, that Christine was _his_, and his _entirely_? To do with _precisely_ as he wished?

He threw back his head and laughed, cackling manically as the power coursed through his veins, intoxicating as a drug, as warm and familiar as an old friend.

Every god demanded a sacrifice.

Erik had just found his.

...

Christine jumped a foot in the air when Erik's door slammed - good Lord! It must have splintered the very hinges off the frame -

_"Christine!"_

She suddenly felt herself grow very small.

She turned to look at him.

She swallowed. Hard.

It was no longer Erik before her. It was the _Phantom_, the demon who haunted every corridor, the spirit who ran wild every night in her dreams...

He had drawn himself up to his full height, his eyes sparking like coals in his mask, his entire aura radiating danger.

She pressed herself closer into the divan.

...

_Damn_ her, just _sitting_ there, in all of her _despicable_ innocence, while he throbbed like a furnace for sheer _want_ of her..._why did she have to make everything so hard!_

...

For a long time they simply stared, Erik blazing like a wild fire, Christine occupying an increasingly smaller space on the divan.

When he spoke, it was with a freezing authority that made Christine cringe in horror.

"I don't see any more point in this charade, _Christine_," he hissed. "You come here, to my _home_ - out of your own free will, mind! - and then you _deliberately_ insult me, by deciding to play by your own, ridiculous, _female_ rules! You just expect _everything_ to go your own way, _don't _you, my little Marguerite? Well, I've had _enough!"_

He stepped closer, pointing a vicious, accusing finger at her.

"You _forget_, vixen, that you are in _Erik's_ domain, and here, he is all powerful! You have tried my patience _long enough!_ _Painful_ as it may be for me, I must now _remind_ you that your only purpose is to serve the Phantom - _exactly_ as he wishes, and in _no other way!"_

Christine had turned a shocking marble white, her mouth opening and closing without a sound.

But this was utterly beyond the pale.

She got slowly to her feet.

She raised her head, brave and proud.

She looked Erik straight in the eye.

And promptly burst into tears.


	7. Chapter 7

Erik had forgotten that the most effective counterstrike against the Phantom of the Opera was an attack of female hysteria.

He smoldered furiously, trying to hold onto his righteous anger in the face of Christine's pitiful tears.

"Enough of this, Christine!" he shouted. "I am _sick_ of the sound of your detestable weeping! You are a grown woman! Act like it!"

Her tears stopped so suddenly that Erik became alarmed.

Christine simply stared at him, her eyes wide, her nostrils flaring, her tiny body radiating an intense, palpable fury.

She snatched frantically for the papers on the table, scribbling a note with such aggression that Erik was surprised that the pencil didn't break.

She thrust the paper, ungently, under his nose.

_I want to leave now. _

Erik tore the note from her hands and crushed it ferociously.

"That is no longer an option, _my dear_. You are staying with me. Forever!"

If anything, her nostrils flared wider. She roughly pulled the paper out of his hands, uncrumpled it, and wrote again.

_You heartless fiend - for what possible reason would you force me to stay with you?_

He laughed wickedly.

"Oh, Christine! My delicious, _naive_ little Christine...you know the reason! Oh yes, you _must_ know!"

If it was possible, she glared harder.

_It is a stupid reason, and I refuse._

"Stupid - well! Be that as it may, it is no longer your _choice_, my dear!"

_I will always have a choice! I am going to throw myself into the lake!_

"Throw yourself...Christine!"

Erik howled. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him, his chest heaving with emotion. Christine stared fiercely into his eyes, her face just inches from his.

"_Why_," he sobbed, "_why_ is death so preferable to _me?_ Am I that _horrible, _that_ degrading?_ What _is_ it that is _so_ _wrong,_ that it makes a cold and miserable death preferable to the mere _idea_ of staying with _me_?"

Christine lost herself completely.

_"Because,"_ she shrieked, _"you don't love me!"_


	8. Chapter 8

They were in shock.

Christine's eyes went wide with horror as she realized her mistake. Oh, how _could_ she? How could she have forgotten herself enough that she actually spoke! Oh God, what would he _think_ of her...

Her lip trembled as she held back tears. He wasn't even looking at her..._why wasn't he looking at her?_

She suddenly realized he was trying to say something. His breath was horribly ragged, and he took in several painfully audible gasps as he clutched pathetically at her sleeves...

"_Christine_," he whispered. _"Christine...explain."_

Christine became utterly hysterical.

"Yes, Erik!" she shrieked. "Yes, my voice is back! I lied to you about it! I lied...do you want to know _why?"_

The poor man couldn't have answered to save his life.

"I lied because I hate it! Yes, I hate it! I hate my voice! I hate _it_, and I hate _you_! I hate you because you loved it_ so much!_ You loved _it_ instead of _me!_ You cruel, stupid man, all you ever wanted from me was my _voice_, another _instrument_ to add to your collection, another talent for you to be perfect at! You never even considered that I wasn't just some...some _thing_, some _toy_ for you to play with! I have a heart! God help me, but I have a heart, and I've wasted it all on _you!"_

"Christine," said Erik quietly, but she didn't even hear.

"You are a horrible, despicable man, Erik! The way you've cruelly abused me, from the first! You playact as an angel, you are kind and tender to me, and - Oh God! - you tell me you _love_ me! and it's all just a perverse, horrible plot to make me sing for you! You even...you even held me! That night, on the divan! You put your arm around me, and even though I was half asleep I think it was the happiest I've been in my entire, pathetic little life! And it was all just a trick!"

"Christine!"

"So fine, Erik! That's just _fine!_ If you want me to stay with you, I'll do it, because I'm a miserable little fool who doesn't even belong to herself anymore! Pack me away in a case in the music room! _I don't care!_ I don't care any more, because _I love you_, with all of the shattered pieces of my heart I love you_,_ so if all you want is an instrument, then I'll _do_ it, I'll do it for-"

_"Christine!"_

His voice sang through the air.

He clutched her shoulders possessively, and she trembled under his grip.

"Christine," he said, his voice hoarse and panting, "oh, Christine, _please_ _stop talking_..."

She stared at him, open mouthed...

He kissed her.

He had to lift his mask ever so slightly, but it was enough. His cold lips pressed against hers with unspeakable hunger. His hands ran up her neck, his fingers twisting painfully into her hair...

Christine made a pitiful noise in her throat before grabbing his collar and pulling him closer.

Erik's mouth traveled desperately over her jaw, her ear, down her neck, before Christine jerked him back to her lips and kissed him so deeply that he saw stars. He groaned into her mouth, and the vibration in his throat set Christine on fire.

His mask had fallen off, ignobly forgotten in the shuffle. Which was convenient, as they had progressed to the full on use of tongues.


	9. Epilogue

Erik and Christine were hastily married that afternoon, and by nightfall they were blissfully entangled in each other's arms.

They paused only once the next day, each to write a single letter.

...

_My dear Raoul,_

_I hardly know how to write this letter, as I suspect that it can only give you pain...yet my own heart is so full of joy! How else can I tell you? Not long ago, when you so kindly visited me at Mamma Valerius's flat, you saw the little gold ring on my finger. I denied its significance at the time, when you asked me...but, Raoul, I am now not only engaged, but actually married! My only excuse is that I did not know the full power of its meaning myself. Please find it in your heart to forgive me, if only for my father's sake._

_He loves me, Raoul. He loves me, for myself! Be assured that I am the happiest of creatures...my only regret is that my childhood friend had to become entangled in a poor opera girl's love affairs. I tried to warn you, dear - be wiser in your choice, next time, and court a woman who is able to please you, as well as your family!_

_I will most likely never sing on the stage again, as I find that I am more than occupied with my own, dear Maestro. He is a good man, Raoul...a good, kind, and tender man. Oh, I never knew it was possible to be so happy!_

_I wish you the best, my friend, and I part from you with the certain knowledge that, one day, you too will know such perfect joy. _

_Adieu,_

_Christine _

...

_Daroga - _

_I demand your congratulations. Through some freak alignment of the heavens, I find myself married. My connubial joy is made perfect in the knowledge that, after reading the previous sentence, you have surely just had a heart attack. _

_She is an angel, Daroga. More to the point, she is _my_ angel. On her account, I hereby resign my post as O.G. You may make my apologies to the managers. _

_She is waiting for me, and if you think for one second, you miserable old fart, that I am going to sit here and write for the sake of a long friendship when I have a lifetime of celibacy to make up for, then you've taken more opium than is good for you. _

_Erik_

_P.S. - If you value your health, I suggest you do not visit any time soon. _

...

What else is there to say, except that, of _course_, they lived happily ever after.


End file.
